


Not To Get Homoerotic About This

by pasdexcuses



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Genderswap, M/M, White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-21 18:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14290794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: It’s five thirty in the morning when Jon gets the first text from Lovett. It just says,Houston, we have a problem.





	Not To Get Homoerotic About This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlmarauders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/gifts).



> girlmarauders, this was so much fun to write, and I hope you like it!
> 
> Title taken from Generation Kill, Episode 3.

It’s five thirty in the morning when Jon gets the first text from Lovett. It just says, _Houston, we have a problem_. Jon doesn’t actually read the text at five thirty. He gets to it at five thirty-five, after his phone has rung twenty times in the space of a few minutes. 

He’s still in his running shorts, dripping sweat all over Lovett and Tommy’s carpet when Lovett opens the door.

“Where’s Tommy?” Jon asks.

“See?” Lovett says over his shoulder. “I told you he’d come running.” He looks at Jon and rolls his eyes before adding, “Literally.”

“Lovett, is this some kind of joke?” Jon asks. “What the hell did you mean by—”

“It’s not a joke,” a voice Jon doesn’t recognize says. It’s a girl in Tommy’s frayed Kenyon t-shirt, frowning like Tommy does, looking very much like Tommy, except for the fact that it’s a girl standing there.

“Holy shit,” Jon says.

“Let’s take this inside,” Lovett suggests.

 

Running a hand over his face, Jon says, “So, um, can you—walk me through this again?” 

“There really isn’t much else to say,” Lovett replies.

“So, you just—just woke up like this?” Jon asks, looking up from his coffee.

Tommy nods. “I—yeah, pretty much,” he sighs, long hair falling all over his face. 

“I heard about this Republican guy once,” Lovett says. “He woke up a girl and two weeks later, back to normal.”

“Did he really?” Tommy asks at the same time that Jon says, “What did he do?” 

Lovett shrugs. “I think he just skipped work, waited out whatever this is.”

Tommy’s face goes white as he says, “Work,” the way someone would say, “Dead.” He’s pressing the heel of his hands against his eyes, voice high and rough when he says, “I hadn’t even thought about _work_.” 

“People call in sick all the time,” Lovett offers, looking over at Jon like he expects him to have a better answer. “And like…”

“And,” Jon says, picking up where Lovett’s voice trails off, “two weeks fly by, man.”

At this, Tommy glares at the pair of them. “You tell me two weeks fly by when you suddenly grow breasts and—and a _freaking vagina_.” Then, “What the fuck am I going to do.”

“We can call in sick for you, buddy,” Lovett suggests. “Or like, tell the President you had a family emergency, or—”

“I’m not going to lie to Obama, Lovett.”

“Technically, Favs and I would be doing the lying, so you’d be fine. It’s not like—”

“Or you could just tell him,” Jon offers. “I mean, Obama would understand.”

“Or,” Tommy says, “or maybe I can just pass as myself. I won’t be the first chick to wear a suit, and—and like, boob tape exists and—just, wait here.”

Jon turns to Lovett and for a second they exchange the same look, because maybe Tommy hasn’t caught himself in the mirror since he woke up like this. There’s just no way this could work, but Tommy has already disappeared into his bedroom.

He comes back ten minutes later wearing a suit and a plaid button-down shirt. He’s done _something_ to hold his breasts flat, and the pattern goes a long way to camouflage his chest. And yet, he still looks like a girl. His hair is past his shoulders, his chin too soft and smooth. The trousers are too loose and long on his legs and weirdly fitted around his waist. Honestly, he looks like a lesbian who looks like Tommy. 

“Uh—” Jon says, staring. 

“Are you—are you checking me out?” Tommy demands, arms crossed over his chest, and he’s blushing and glaring and this is really fucked up.

“No,” Jon replies, feeling guilty because he may be lying a little. “But, like, I don’t know if you can pass as yourself, man.”

“Yeah,” Lovett agrees. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love this whole Rachel Maddow vibe.” He gestures at Tommy’s entire being. “But, that’s kinda the point here.”

“Okay,” Tommy says slowly. “Okay, it needs work, but I can get a hair cut and, like—” he swallows thickly.

When he doesn’t go on, Jon says, “I think you should just tell Obama.” 

Tommy looks like he’s about to argue for a moment, but then he’s sucking in a breath and saying, “Yeah, you’re right.”

 

While Lovett is getting them breakfast from Tommy’s favorite place, Jon walks Tommy to the Oval office. He has to lie to the security guards and say something about a new candidate for the speechwriting team. They kind of stare at Tommy, making him blush, and Jon has to make a conscious effort to just move on. 

He walks Tommy all the way to the door and waits outside, trying not to feel too weird about this. It reminds of that time he dated a girl who was in detention more often than not, and Jon would wait for her to come out in the school parking lot. Except Tommy isn’t someone he’s dating, nor is he really a real chick, so Jon awkwardly lurking outside the Oval office feels more weird than anything else. 

By the time Tommy walks out, Lovett has joined Jon in the awkward lurking. 

“So?” Jon asks. 

Tommy shrugs. “Can we talk outside?”

It’s too sunny outside, too warm and Tommy shields his eyes against the sun when he says, “He was pretty cool about the whole thing. Said he’d heard of something like this happening to someone else in DC.”

“I told you about that Republican,” Lovett says. “I can try and get a hold of him?”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. “Yeah, I think—yeah.”

“So,” Jon prompts, “what else did Obama say?”

Tommy looks away. “He pretty much told me it was my choice. I could come in to work, or work from home or even just take a few days off. You know,” he says, gesturing with his hand, “until whatever this is goes away.”

“Well, that’s—that’s great, Tommy,” Jon says. His first instinct is to squeeze Tommy’s shoulder in support, but Tommy looks uncomfortable in his clothes, keeps hunching in on himself. “What do you, um, want to do?”

“I think—I think I’m gonna take the rest of the week off,” Tommy says slowly. “And hope I’m back to normal by next Monday?”

“Well,” Lovett says, smiling, “on the bright side, Favs will no longer be the hottest thing in a DC bar when we take you out tonight.”

“Lovett—” Jon starts, half-scandalized already, but Tommy is already laughing, clutching his stomach.

“Oh, my god,” Tommy says after a moment, breathless. “Thank you, Lovett.”

“I don’t know what you’re even thanking me for,” Lovett replies magnanimously. “I mean, you’re hotter than Favreau’s celebrity hookups, and we’ll be spending the night fending off unsuitable suitors, just you wait.”

Tommy’s laugh is louder this time, cheeks a deep shade of pink. As he brushes his hair off his face, Jon’s stomach drops, his cheeks warming up. Lovett watches this happen, calls him out for blushing, saying something about Jon being upset about having to relinquish his crown for most attractive person in town. 

Ducking his head, Jon almost misses the way Tommy looks at him for a second, curious. 

 

It feels odd not having Tommy at the White House. Jon keeps making his way to Tommy’s office, only to remember there’s no point in doing so. It’s Thursday, which means they’re having Chinese and there’s no one there to order pork dumplings so Jon can steal a couple when Tommy’s pretending to look the other way. 

In the break room, Lovett places a hand on his shoulder and says in a low voice, “Relax, Favs. Pork dumplings are gross and you shouldn’t eat them anyway.” It might as well be Lovett-speak for “I miss him, too.” 

This isn’t what makes Jon blink at him. 

“Yes,” Lovett says, like he’s answering a question. “We’re all aware of your really weird, married-like habits.” He pauses to let that sink in before adding, “Though you may want to tone down the mourning attitude, or people are gonna start thinking there’s something actually wrong with Tommy and not just the flu.”

 

Tommy’s still a girl the following day and the day after that. He refuses to go out with them for beer on Friday, and he’s still a girl on Sunday and on Monday. He looks tired all the time, snaps at anyone who speaks to him and refuses to leave his apartment for an entire week. He takes Obama up on his offer to work from home, and Jon’s phone goes off every two minutes with texts that are half about actual work, half about the sad state of mid-morning cable news. 

A little over a week into Tommy’s self-imposed exile, Lovett grabs Jon by the elbow and walks him out onto the street. 

“I need coffee,” is all he says by way of an explanation, which is ridiculous because their office has coffee from all corners of the world. There really is no reason to go to Starbucks to spend money on what is arguably inferior quality. 

Outside, Lovett says, “I bought weed.”

Jon stares at him. “I’m sorry, you what?”

Lovett rolls his eyes. “I bought weed.” Then, “Don’t look at me like that, Favreau. I know what you boys used to get up to back in Chicago, and while I’m not a proponent of using drugs and alcohol to forget your problems, I’m concerned.”

“About Tommy?” Jon guesses.

Lovett nods. “He needs to relax and get out of the house. Get out of his own head, really. You know how he gets.”

“So, you bought weed,” Jon recapitulates, “for the relaxing part.”

“Yes, and I’m recruiting you for the going out part. I’m thinking a sports bar, or something chill, y’know. So, my place at seven?”

Jon glances down at his watch. He’s got a pile of work waiting for him back at the office, and two early morning meetings tomorrow. But he hasn’t seen Tommy in what feels like ages, and for all the jokes Lovett’s been making all week about Jon missing Tommy like a limb, he sounds genuinely concerned.

“I’ll swing by around eight with pizza,” Jon counter-offers. 

“Fine,” Lovett says. “But I’m getting us started without you.” He winks at Jon for good measure before laughing when Jon’s face goes warm. 

Jon swings by at eight on the dot and is hit by a waft of weed that could be smelled from a hundred feet against the wind the second he rings the bell. Tommy’s watching cartoons, sitting cross-legged on their couch, a bong on the coffee table as though there needed to be any more incriminating evidence. 

“Please tell me you saved some for me,” Jon says, dropping the pizza on the kitchen counter. 

Tommy shakes his head. “Nope,” he answers, giggling. Then he sees the pizza and makes a beeline for it. “You’re a godsend,” he says, grabbing a slice and trying to cram it all in his mouth at once. 

Jon turns to Lovett. “What did you do, give him enough weed to knock out an elephant?” 

Lovett stares at him before he cracks up laughing. “No,” he says, slurring the word. “Never.”

“And you saved none from me?” Jon asks, shaking his head as he tries and fails to hide his smile. “Not cool. I even brought you pizza.”

“I was in need,” Tommy says, and there are already pizza stains on his shirt. “I’m the needy and you should always give to the needy.”

Jon can’t help laughing this time. “Is that so?”

Tommy nods. “Mmhmm. Always,” he says. “It’s in the Bible.” 

“Beer?” Lovett asks him from where’s rummaging the fridge.

When the three of them are on the couch, Tommy turns to Jon. His voice low like it’s a secret, he says, “Wanna know what I did today?”

Jon raises his eyebrows. 

“I got myself a bra,” Tommy whispers, his eyes searching Jon’s face. 

“Oh,” is all Jon can think of saying. 

“The lady at Target said even lesbians need bras.”

“ _What_?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, giggling some more. “I think she was hitting on me. I’m not sure.”

“Oh, she was definitely hitting on you,” Lovett quips. 

“At least you left the house?” Jon says, uncertain because Tommy is searching his face again. Because if this were anyone else, Jon would probably lean in for a kiss.

“Yes,” Tommy says, dragging out the s until all he’s doing is hissing, and the moment is gone. 

They watch cartoons until it’s too late for the trains to be running. Jon is too full of pizza and beer to really want to grab a cab all the way back to his place, so he takes up Lovett on his couch offer. Lovett goes to bed after a while, but Tommy stays. 

Jon is almost half-asleep when Tommy says, “I wanna get laid.” 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and for Jon to blink himself awake. “I—okay?”

“I mean,” Tommy goes on, finishing his beer. “I’ve looked in the mirror, I think I could do okay.” Then, he clarifies, “At picking up, I mean.”

“I got that part, buddy,” Jon answers, eyes fixed on the TV.

“I mean, I’m not like super hot,” Tommy says. 

“Lovett would disagree.”

Tommy laughs softly, cheeks already pink from the weed and the beer. “He’s—whatever.” Then, “You know what?” he says. “If this ever happened to you, _you’d_ have no problem picking up.”

“What?” Jon says, turning to Tommy.

Tommy shrugs. “You’d make a hot chick, dude.”

“That’s—I—” There’s something about the way Tommy looks right there and then, like he’s sad but trying to hide it. It makes Jon say, “You’re hot, Tommy.”

Tommy’s blush spreads from his cheeks down his neck. He chuckles, hiding his face as he says, “I don’t make for a bad chick either, huh?”

Jon wants to tell him he’s always been hot, boobs or not, but then Tommy starts talking about which bar he should go to and how Lovett and Jon should come with, for moral support. Jon agrees —he’s hardly ever disagreed with Tommy— and they don’t really talk about it again. 

 

“You remember that time we went to the Melting Pot for your birthday?” Tommy asks.

He’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, the latest speech Jon’s been working on balanced on his skinny knees. It was Lovett’s idea to leave the office earlier and work from their apartment. Except now Lovett is gone who knows where, and it’s just Jon and Tommy on their couch. 

“Weren’t you sick for days after?” Jon says. 

“Only one day,” Tommy says, snickering. “But, yeah.” He’s got his head tilted to one side. “Your family was nice.”

“My family was very loud, you mean.”

“Nah,” Tommy says, smiling. “They were very nice. I remember because I was broke, and that was the first decent meal I’d had in months.”

Jon laughs, head thrown back. “It was—” he says, remembering and shaking his head. 

“It was what?”

Weird, Jon thinks. It was a weird night because he’d been worried about Tommy liking his family and his family liking Tommy back. Back then, he told himself it was because this friendship between them was too new at the time, too fragile. But then Andy called him up a couple of days later and point-blank asked if Jon and Tommy were dating. To this day, that’s still one of the weirdest conversations Andy and him have ever had.

“Nice,” Jon says, a little quieter. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Thanks, man.”

Jon turns to him, sitting up a little straighter. “What, for feeding you over six years ago?” 

Tommy grins wide. “For being a good friend.”

Jon stares at him, and maybe it’s a moment too long because it makes Tommy blush and duck his head. It isn’t the first time the thought crosses his mind but it knocks the breath right out of his chest with how true it is: there’s hardly anything Jon wouldn’t do for him. 

 

Tommy sits sandwiched between Lovett and Jon at sports bar. He’s been a girl for over two weeks now, and it doesn’t look like he’s taking this very well. 

“What do you mean ‘work out some stuff’?” he asks, frowning down at his beer.

“That’s what he said,” Lovett replies, and it’s a testament to how patient he’s trying to be that he doesn’t add anything else. 

“No, but like, what did he say, exactly,” Tommy insists, an edge to his voice. 

Lovett sighs. “He said, and I quote, ‘I had to work on some personal stuff, and I went back to normal after I sorted that out’.”

“But what kind of personal stuff are we talking about here?”

“I dunno, Tommy,” Lovett answers. “It’s not like we’re friends, he’s a Republican.”

“You’ve been banging him for the better part of two months,” Tommy says, sounding more like he’s accusing Lovett of stealing his wallet. “Is that really the best you can get out of him?”

Lovett looks struck for second, but then he’s biting back with, “Well, forgive me, I wasn’t aware you’d hired me to be some sort of sex spy to solve all your goddamn problems.”

Tommy is pink in the face when he starts saying, “You’re such a fu—”

“Okay,” Jon says, louder than Tommy and Lovett. “Tom, come on, Lovett’s just trying to help,” he says to Tommy. To Lovett, he adds, “Truce?”

Lovett rolls his eyes, but he’s nodding just as Tommy says, “I’m sorry, Lovett.”

“See?” Jon says, “Isn’t it better when we’re all getting along?”

Lovett snorts, but Tommy’s laser-focused on his beer. Gulping it down, he fishes for his wallet, has to actually stand up to release it from the tight grip of his women's jeans.

"Fucking fuck," Tommy mutters under his breath, taking a twenty from his wallet and leaving it on the table.

“What are you doing, buddy?” Jon asks carefully. 

“I think Lovett’s right,” Tommy replies darkly. “I think I need to work on some stuff.”

“Um,” Jon starts, watching Tommy resume the fight to get his wallet stuffed back into the ridiculously minuscule pocket of his jeans. “What, uh, stuff?”

Back at their place, Jon had seen Tommy re-arrange his wallet five times just to get it to fit inside one of his pockets. He'd had to leave in only the essentials, and at one point Jon couldn't help himself any longer. He'd asked Tommy if he'd like for Jon to carry it for him. Lovett had face-palmed so hard it was a miracle he didn't end up with a bruise the size of his own hand on his face. Tommy had glared at Jon, looking like he was about to give Jon a piece of his mind before he redirected all that energy to pushing his wallet into one of his pockets until he succeeded.

Jon has the same instinct now, to offer Tommy one of his pockets, because there's only so much he can take of this cocktail of frustration, sadness and anger on Tommy's face. Lovett catches his eye first, shaking his head vehemently before Jon can get a single word out of his mouth.

It's too late, though. Tommy sees the looks transpiring between them, the way Jon's eyes keep flickering to his wallet and pocket.

“I don't need you to carry my fucking belongings for me, Jon,” Tommy says through gritted teeth. "I'm not your goddammned gi—" Cutting himself off, he presses his fingers to his closed eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, flips it all the way to one side before saying, "Let's get out of here."

Carefully avoiding exchanging looks with Jon, Lovett asks, "And go where?"

With the same firm conviction Tommy had once told Jon Obama would be president one day, he says, “I’m getting laid.”

Lovett does a spit take, eyes wide. “You’re—you’re going to do what now?”

“I,” Tommy says, punctuating each word, “am getting laid.”

“You said that,” Lovett says. “But is that really a good idea? I mean, men are just gross. We all know it, we’re gross, and—”

“Lovett,” Tommy interrupts, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m going to that new bar, and you can either come with me, or go home, I honestly don’t care. But I’m getting laid tonight.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lovett’s says under his breath. “Okay, fine, lead the way.”

Later, when they’re standing in line to go inside a club that’s way too loud, Lovett turns to Jon and whispers, “Do you think this is a good idea?”

Tommy is standing a few feet ahead of them, craning his neck to get a glimpse inside the bar. He keeps fixing his hair, feet shifting, and Jon hasn't missed the number of guys checking him out.

To Lovett, Jon says, “Of course not. But—I mean, it’s, whatever, his body—”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Lovett manages to look chastising as he says, “What are you now, a Planned Parenthood advocate?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Maybe he just needs to let out a little steam. Besides, it’s Tommy, he’s never had a one night stand as far as I know.”

“Well,” Lovett says exasperatedly, “he’s never been a girl before, so that’s stupid reasoning.” 

Before they going inside, Jon would’ve disagreed. But three rounds of shots in, Tommy’s dancing and grinding up against a guy, hair messily pulled up. The guy keeps bending his head, burying it in Tommy’s neck, making Tommy throw his head back, eyes screwed shut with this look Jon’s never seen on his face. It makes Jon grip his drink a little too tight.

“This is ridiculous,” Lovett says, arms crossed. “It’s basically like watching softcore porn. Some should stop this.”

The more Jon stares, the harder it is for him to find his words. “It’s—I mean, it’s Tommy’s choice, and—”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Lovett cuts him off. “He’s had way too much to drink, and I bet that new body of his is a lightweight. Just, go swoop in, be a knight in shining armor and spare us all the potential nightmare.”

“I can’t just—walk up to them.”

“Sure you can,” Lovett says. “Just walk up to them and say, ‘Hey, my girlfriend and I are ready to leave.’ And you carry him out of here if you have to.”

“I gotta say, Lovett,” Jon says, turning to him. “This yenta side of you is really unexpected.”

Lovett spares a moment to glare at him before saying, “I’m Jewish, it’s basically my birth right to worry. Also, come on.” He’s pointing back at the dance floor, where the guy is cupping Tommy's breast over his shirt.

“Jesus christ,” Jon whispers under his breath, and he’s already leaving his drink on the table and standing up when Tommy starts making his way to them on his own. 

“Let’s go,” he says as soon as he’s within earshot. His hair is all messed up, two red bruises on his neck. But his eyes are wide and he’s got his arms wrapped around himself, and Jon thinks he might punch something because what the hell. 

“What happened?” Jon asks.

Lovett rolls his eyes and says, “Who cares, we’re leaving.”

Tommy lets them usher him outside. He’s pretty drunk, listing to his left so that Jon has to half carry him while they wait for a cab to pull over. As girl, Tommy’s still taller than Lovett, which means it’s Jon who has to help him inside the cab. He sprawls all over, barely leaving any space for another passenger, let alone two.

“I’ll go in the front,” Lovett says, so Jon climbs in after Tommy. 

The ride is mostly quiet, until Tommy sits up straighter and whispers, “Fuck, that was stupid.”

Jon moves over a little closer. “What, um, happened back there?”

Tommy shakes his head, resting it on Jon’s shoulder. He lets out a long sigh before saying, “Nothing, it was just—fuck, I just couldn’t do it.” He’s quiet for a while, and Jon thinks he’s fallen asleep until he adds, “He was grabbing me all over. And it—it was good, but then—” Tommy swallows, his voice going so low Jon has to strain to hear him, “He wanted me, because I look like a girl. But I’m not, and I just—this is so fucked up.”

He buries his face deeper into Jon’s side, and Jon can feel Tommy’s breath through his shirt, warm and unsteady. 

They’re almost at their apartment when Tommy says, “I just—I don’t wanna lie to anyone.”

“Then don’t,” Jon replies.

Tommy groans. “Yeah, but—I can’t just say ‘hey, I know I look like a chick, but really, I’m a guy, so, like, are we still on or what?’” Jon laughs, feeling Tommy’s laugh against his side soon after. Then he’s saying, “This would—like, it would be so much _easier_ with someone who just knew.”

Jon freezes for a moment, because he’s sure Tommy isn’t—he isn’t, like, suggesting anything. It still doesn’t keep Jon’s mind from coming up with his own scenarios, and—he shakes his head. It’s a stupid idea. 

Between Lovett and Jon, they help Tommy upstairs and on his bed. Then Lovett mutters something about a long night and a long week, so it’s just Jon, lingering. 

“You know,” he says quietly. Knowing an idea is stupid has never stopped him before, and Jon’s a little drunk, and Tommy’s mouth is a little puffy and pink, and Jon—Jon wants this, has wanted it probably since he was sharing a cubicle with Tommy, teasing him about his neatly organized desk, even when everything else around them was chaos. “I could, uh—like, I can help out—if—if that’s something you’d like.”

Tommy blinks at him in confusion, sitting up. Jon can tell the exact moment he catches Jon’s meaning because his eyes go wide and round, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. “What, like now?” he asks.

“What? No,” Jon says. He quickly adds, “I mean, we’re both kinda drunk, so, it’s—I just meant, you know, if you wanna.” He shrugs, trying to appear chill even though they both know there’s absolutely zero ounces of chill to this situation. “I’m, um, down if—if you’re down.”

Tommy nods, flopping back on his bed. He mumbles something against his pillow that Jon doesn’t catch, eyes falling close. It takes Jon a minute to register Tommy has just passed out, so he closes the door behind him. He needs a moment, he thinks, closing his eyes and banging his head against Tommy’s door involuntarily. 

When he opens his eyes, Lovett is standing in front of him, holding a glass of water. “Did you do something stupid?” he asks.

Jon shakes his head. Chances are, Tommy won’t even remember this conversation. And Jon doesn’t know whether this is good or bad. 

 

Jon spends the following morning making an active effort not to hit his head against the wall. He keeps replaying the conversation and wanting the earth to open up and swallow him whole, because there’s stupid and then there’s what he said to Tommy. And if their friendship is over because Jon couldn’t keep his mouth shut for once, then he’ll have no one to blame but himself. 

He spends the entire weekend agonizing over Friday night. He keeps writing and deleting texts to Tommy, not sure if he should apologize or pretend he can’t remember a damn thing. Or if maybe he should just let things run their course, because for all he knows, Tommy was too drunk to remember anything at all. 

It’s Tommy who texts him first, something innocuous about work. 

 

There are weeks when working at the White House feels like falling into a time warp where hours bleed into each other and the twelve hours of sunlight a day don’t seem enough to get everything done. They all go through these, though before he woke up a girl, it was Tommy who was constantly losing track of time, forgetting to eat and sleep.

Jon doesn’t know what it is about not going in to the office —because Tommy is constantly texting and demanding to know what they’re all up to— but Tommy does look less tired. He still gets frustrated and angry on bad days, still works way past sundown. But the following morning, he doesn’t have deep dark circles under his eyes. Maybe it’s because he’s not in the sit room any more. Maybe it’s something else. Jon doesn’t really know what it is, but he’s almost glad this happened. 

It’s Jon who’s having an endless week; Jon who’s falling asleep on his way to and from work; Jon who hasn’t eaten anything other than subways and takeout Chinese for days, and Jon who’s had little to no sleep when Tommy shows up on his doorstep. It’s midnight on a Thursday.

“Is this a bad time?” Tommy asks, glancing around Jon’s apartment.

There are scattered papers and binders all over his floor and on his dining table, a mug of coffee that’s already been refilled thrice and a half-eaten sandwich, forgotten on a stack of papers Jon is no longer working on.

“No,” Jon lies, going into the kitchen. “Want something to drink? I think I have beer or coke somewhere in here, or—” He turns around, and Tommy is just standing in the living room, but there’s something different about him. Jon’s too tired to figure it out, but it’s like a prickle he can feel under his skin. There’s something different about him. “Tommy?”

Tommy shifts on his feet. “You’re busy,” he says. It’s not really a question.

Jon stares at his apartment. “We can hang around,” he offers, rubbing his eyes. 

“No, that’s—you’re tired, man. I’ll just grab a cab.”

“Tommy, was there—I mean, is everything okay?”

Tommy hesitates for a moment, then, “Do you remember what you said?”

Jon blinks at him. “About?”

Shaking his head, Tommy goes a little pink as he says, “Nothing, forget it. It was—” He takes a deep breath and makes his way to the door. “You should get some sleep, Jon.”

Jon frowns after him, but sleep is winning out for the first time that week.

 

He wakes up around four with start and there’s no doubt in his mind as to what Tommy was referring to earlier. Before he loses his nerve, he grabs his phone and shoots Tommy a quick text. _I remember what I said. Saturday night?_

He falls back asleep soon after that, but when he wakes up later, there’s a text from Tommy on his phone. _You’re on_

 

Tommy’s at Jon’s door at nine pm sharp on Saturday. The moment Jon sees him, he can tell what’s different about him. It’s his clothes, which are snugger on him. These aren’t Tommy’s old clothes, but something he must’ve bought recently. 

“I—uh, come in?” Jon says. “Do you, um, wanna beer or—”

“Beer’s good,” Tommy says, too fast, and Jon can see he’s already blushing a little. 

They drink their beer in silence, Jon taking the empty bottles back to the kitchen. He’s about to ask Tommy if he wants another one when he turns around and Tommy is there, leaning against the counter.

“So,” Tommy says, and his cheeks are really pink now. 

“Yeah,” Jon replies, and before he knows what’s what, Tommy’s mouth is on his. 

Tommy tastes of beer and something sweeter underneath. He’s shorter than Jon now, so he tilts his head up, pressing into Jon’s hips. Jon has a moment’s hesitation; he’s done this a thousand times before and yet never like this, never with Tommy, and—he hesitates, feeling Tommy start to pull away just as he realizes maybe this is it.

He wraps his arms around Tommy, around his narrow waist, hands falling tentatively just above the curve of his ass. Pressing harder against Jon, Tommy takes one of his hands, moves it all the way down to his ass.

He smirks against Jon’s lips before saying, “Don’t get shy on my now, Favreau.”

Jon laughs, squeezing Tommy’s ass. Tommy hooks a leg on Jon’s hip, and Jon needs better leverage here, they both do. Jon lifts him up, Tommy wrapping both his legs around Jon’s waist. He grabs the back of Jon’s neck, sucking on his bottom lip. They make out like this, until Jon is breathless, head spinning.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, breathless as he rests his head against Tommy’s exposed throat. He kisses him there, can’t help but scrape his teeth where he feels Tommy’s pulse racing. “You’re so—” _Amazing_. He can’t remember the last time he got this hard just from making out. “You feel so—” _Great_. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and when Jon looks up, his eyes are closed. Then, quieter against Jon’s mouth, “Take me to your room.”

Nodding, Jon lets Tommy’s legs fall to the floor. Taking Tommy’s hand, Jon leads the way to his room. 

Tommy lies on the bed first, right in the middle of it. He brings Jon down by pulling on his shirt until they’re inches apart. Jon’s got his knees on either side of Tommy’s hips, his hands holding the rest of his body up. He kisses Tommy like this, slow, gentle, until Tommy breaks away. 

Arching an eyebrow at Jon, Tommy gives Jon an unimpressed look. “I was promised sex,” he deadpans.

Jon can’t help himself. He buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck, laughing. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous about sex. It’s like his body is too confused trying to decide whether all his blood should rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, or down to his dick, because Tommy—fuck, Tommy is just so—Jon presses his mouth to the curve of Tommy’s neck, smiling at Tommy’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Fuck, just,” Tommy starts, pulling on Jon’s shirt. “Take it off.”

Jon breaks away to pull his shirt over his head, throwing it carelessly on the floor. He watches Tommy frown at it.

“Seriously?” Jon teases, and Tommy goes bright red. 

“Shut up,” he says. “Just—” Then his hands are landing flat and cold against Jon’s stomach.

“Fuck—your hands—so cold, dude,” Jon says, flinching a little. 

He has something else on the tip of his tongue, but then Tommy’s hands are down on his belt, fingers working it loose. He holds the belt in his hand for a moment, and Jon is about to tease him some more for being so OCD when he just throws it on the floor along with the shirt. 

“See?” Tommy says, daring. “I can be unpredictable, too.”

It makes Jon smile and want to kiss him again, so he does. And he’s not thinking about it now, not really, so his hand just wanders down on its own, touching Tommy’s side, his breast. He kisses Tommy down his throat, feels it working under his mouth. He kisses Tommy on the bits of skin exposed, and Tommy starts rocking his hips, up and down. 

“Is this—um,” Jon swallows hard. “Uh, is this okay?”

“Ye—yeah, just—” Tommy’s pushing Jon away, but before Jon can ask, he’s watching Tommy unbutton his plaid shirt, transfixed. 

Tommy’s red in the face, down to his neck and chest, and everything is suddenly very weird, but very hot. Because Tommy isn’t wearing a bra, and there are goosebumps on his small breasts, his nipples perky.

“Should I—” Jon starts, concentrating very hard Tommy’s face. “Like, do you—um—should I turn the heater on?”

“Oh my God, Favreau,” Tommy says, shaking his head, but smiling. “Just—Kiss me.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. “Yeah, I can, uh, do that.”

Kissing a shirtless Tommy feels pretty much the same —amazing— except for the fact that he lets out this low, throaty moan when Jon brushes his fingertip over his nipple. He thinks maybe it might be a fluke —most girls Jon’s ever slept with weren’t all that sensitive in the nipple area— but when he does it again, Tommy groans a little deeper. It’s—Jon wants to doit over and over again.

“Fu—uck,” Tommy breathes out, tensing under Jon. 

Jon sucks on his nipple, and Tommy makes the hottest noise Jon’s ever heard. 

He pinches Tommy’s other nipple, working on him until Tommy throws his head back, arching up into Jon. Jon wants to ask Tommy if it was like this, before, but Tommy is sliding both hands under Jon’s pants, squeezing his ass. 

“Off,” he says, and Jon doesn’t have to be told twice to strip down to his boxers. Shaking his head, Tommy adds, “I meant—”

He cuts himself off just as Jon unzips his jeans, kissing Tommy down his stomach, below his navel. Lifting up his hips, Tommy helps Jon, pulling not only on his jeans, but also on his underwear, like he doesn’t want Jon to see. 

It’s too late though. Jon’s already seen Tommy’s wearing blue panties that hug his hips. He has to grab Tommy’s wrists to stop him from taking them off. 

“Fuck,” Jon mumbles under his breath. 

“Is this—this is too weird, isn’t it?” Tommy says, and when Jon looks up, his face is closed off. 

“Tom, no,” Jon says quickly, stroking his hip over soft fabric. “I think—this is really hot.”

Tommy flushes, breaking into a smile. “What a degenerate,” he accuses without any real bite to his words. 

Jon chuckles, grinning. “No,” he says. “Though this,” he adds, a hand flat on Tommy’s underwear. “This might qualify.”

He rubs Tommy’s clit over the cotton fabric, and that sentence alone is such a strange thought, but Tommy spreads his legs wider, stares at Jon. 

Jon runs his fingers up and down Tommy’s thighs. He grabs Tommy’s leg, biting on soft skin. He kisses Tommy’s thighs, scrapes his teeth against the muscle and scratches the cotton over Tommy’s crotch until Tommy’s hips are rocking again, feet firmly planted on the mattress. 

“Jesus,” Tommy groans. “Jon.”

Jon mumbles his reply against Tommy’s underwear, making him twitch. Then Jon’s grabbing the panties, taking them off before tracing a line with two fingers, from the base of Tommy’s pussy up to his clit. Tommy groans again, something Jon can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter. Tommy smells good and wet, and Jon gives him no warning before pressing his tongue to his crotch to taste him. 

He slides in a finger then a second, sucking softly, experimentally. 

“Oh G—od,” Tommy chokes out just, and Jon has to look up to be sure they’re still good. He’s cataloguing every sound Tommy makes, matching it to every expression on his face, and when he looks up this time, Tommy has his eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, and he looks—

“God, you’re—you’re beautiful,” Jon breathes in between Tommy’s thighs. 

Tommy opens his eyes, and something flashes across them, but it’s gone too quickly before Jon can put a name to it. “You’re—” he starts, as Jon ducks his head, tongue darting out again. “Fuck, you’re good at this.”

He goes down on Tommy, slow and steady, sucking bruises where no one else will see, tasting him. He hears the sounds Tommy makes when he hums against him, watches him throw his head back and grab at the sheets, knuckles white.

“Jon, I’m gonna—” Tommy says, face is flushed, hair a mess, and they both know he’s so close. 

“You can, I don’t—”

Tommy shakes his head. “No, no,” he pants, fingers threaded through Jon’s hair. “Fuck, just—” And then, devastatingly, he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

“I—” Jon starts. 

It takes Jon a moment too long to wrap his head around this, not because he doesn’t want to —of course he does, the last time he wanted something this badly was when Obama ran for president— but because this is Tommy. And Tommy’s been Jon’s best friend, through some of the craziest shit that’s ever happened to Jon, and this, this feels monumental in a way that it’s hard for his brain to understand. 

But it’s a moment too long, and Tommy is pushing himself off the bed, saying, “It’s—fine, I know this is—”

“Tom, I—” Jon says, thinking, _I love you_. 

His pulse races. Tommy’s staring up at him, confused, and Jon doesn’t know what the right words are, doesn’t want to fuck this up. So, he kisses Tommy instead. 

“I want it, too,” Jon mumbles.

Tommy sighs into his mouth, nodding. They kiss some more, until Jon moves off Tommy to get a condom. He rolls it on himself, hands shaking. On the bed, Tommy has his back against the headboard, knees bent to his chest. 

“Hey,” Jon says, a hand on Tommy’s thigh.

“Hey,” Tommy says, pupils blown. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath before spreading his knees. His voice is steady when he says, “Kiss me,” so Jon does. 

He settles in between Tommy’s legs, stroking Tommy’s side. He plays with Tommy’s breasts and nibbles behind his ear, making Tommy shudder. Then Tommy’s wrapping his legs around Jon’s waist, lips brushing against Jon’s ear when he whispers, “Fuck me, Jon.”

Jon buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck, needing a second to bring himself down, because it’s all too much, Tommy wrapped around him is too much, too hot, too amazing. Jon needs a second here. 

“You’re amazing,” Jon says after a beat, just before he pushes the head of his dick inside Tommy. “Is this—are you okay?”

Eyes closed, Tommy replies, “Just—go slow, okay?”

Jon nods, kissing Tommy as he slides further in. Tommy is warm and tight and velvety, and it takes all Jon’s got to push in slow. He asks Tommy if this is okay again, watches him nod, eyes still closed, mouth half-open before Jon is all the way in. 

Jon moves in long, measured thrusts. He wants to make Tommy feel good, wants him to enjoy this just as much as he is. 

“What do you want?” he murmurs against Tommy’s skin, snaking a hand between them so he can rub Tommy’s clit. He draws slow circles, tries to match the rhythm of his thrusts.

“That—” Tommy starts, breathless and head thrown back, exposing his throat. “That feels—fuck, so good, Jon.”

They fuck in slow, long strokes, kissing and touching until a breeze could tip them over the edge. Tommy’s breath falters first. He pants into Jon’s mouth, legs tensing.

“Jon, _fuck_ ,” Tommy moans, and he’s clenching all around Jon, tight and wet as he goes over the edge. 

It takes a couple more strokes for Jon, vision going white when his orgasm finally hits him, knocking the breath out of him. 

Jon collapses on Tommy, feels Tommy run his fingers through his hair. They’re sticky and sweaty, but it doesn’t matter. Jon could stay here forever. He pulls out, taking the condom and dumping it in the trash. Tommy’s looking like he’ll be out cold sooner rather than later, so Jon gets them under the sheets. Pulling Tommy close, Jon falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

 

Jon makes breakfast for them in the morning. He makes scrambled eggs and toast, puts the coffee on and cuts up a melon because Tommy was the first person to get Jon into eating food at breakfast, back when they were living in the same house.

Tommy ducks his head and blushes when he sits at the table. But he smiles when he looks up at Jon, gives Jon a quick peck on the lips just before he leaves, and Jon thinks maybe this wasn’t a terrible mistake after all. 

 

They don’t talk about it, but on Tuesday, Tommy comes over for work, and they end up having sex on Jon’s couch. 

On Wednesday, Jon announces he’s having lunch with a friend, and takes the train to Tommy’s. Tommy rides him on his bed, and Jon comes so hard it almost hurts.

On Friday, they lie to Lovett to have sex all over Jon’s apartment.

 

When Lovett corners him at work, Jon knows what it’s about the second Lovett double checks to make sure the door is locked.

“Tommy’s sleeping with someone,” he announces, dropping a stack of papers on Jon’s desk. “And it’s either you or some random.” He narrows his eyes at Jon before adding, “I don’t know which is worse.”

Jon runs his hands over his face. “Have you considered having this conversation with Tommy?”

“Yes, and frankly, you’re less intimidating,” Lovett replies, his mouth a thin, displeased line. “Besides, the point here is that Tommy is sleeping with someone. The fact that you aren’t freaking out right know probably means that someone is you, and just, what the fuck?”

“I—” Jon starts, sighing. “How did you know?”

“I live with the guy, Favs,” Lovett says. “I’ve lived with him for some time now, and I know what he looks like when he’s getting some on the regular.” Then, an unimpressed look on his face, “Also, those goddamn hickeys, what are you, thirteen?”

Jon feels his face grow hot at the accusation. He was not exactly prepared for an ambush when he walked into the office this morning. And the genuine worry on Lovett’s face is—disconcerting. 

“I—it’s just—we’re just friends,” Jon says, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Oh my God,” Lovett groans, dropping his head on his hands. “It’s even stupider than I thought.”

“Hey!”

“You’re both idiots,” Lovett says. “And this is going to end badly—”

“It’s not,” Jon argues. 

“I’m willing to bet my precious right hand that you haven’t even _talked_ about this, and—”

“That really isn’t any of your bu—”

“—one of you is going to end up hurt,” Lovett finishes, giving Jon a meaningful look. “Just—Listen, Tommy’s going through a lot right now.”

“I know,” Jon says. 

Lovett shakes his head. “I don’t think you do. He’s—” He stops himself, taking a deep breath. “You’re both adults, so I’m not about to tell you what to do, but—just, make sure you’re doing the right thing here.”

Jon looks at him, and doesn’t really know what to say. He doesn’t know much, except that this thing with Tommy feels right. 

 

That night, Tommy rings Jon’s bell, closing the door with his foot as soon as Jon lets him in. Then he has a hand at the back of Jon’s neck and another pulling him flush against him. Jon chuckles into his mouth, palm flat against the wall for balance. 

They’re kissing, Tommy rolling his hips and grinding them up against Jon’s. Jon has a fistful of Tommy’s hair, and when he pulls on it, Tommy lets out a soft sigh, smiling. 

“Yeah,” he breathes in Jon’s ear, biting his bottom lip. 

Jon presses them to wall, needing the leverage to grab Tommy’s ass through his jeans, touch him through the fabric of his shirt. He nuzzles the crook of Tommy’s neck, moving his thigh forward to spread his knees. Tommy grinds down on Jon’s leg as Jon works a hand under his shirt and up to his breasts. His nipples are already hard, and he bangs his head against the wall when Jon pinches them. 

“Fuck, Tom,” Jon whispers into his hair. 

Tommy nods, throat working as Jon uses his other hand to work open his jeans. They’ve done this a few times now, but it still doesn’t stop amazing Jon how wet Tommy gets. He loves feeling him, on his fingers and on his tongue.

He slips two fingers inside, thumb flat against Tommy’s clit. Curling his fingers inside, he leaves his thumb flat, a dull pressure against Tommy. 

“Jon,” Tommy moans, legs tensing. 

“Should we—bedroom?” Jon suggests, rubbing a lazy circle on Tommy’s clit.

It makes Tommy shudder, a full body shiver that leaves Jon breathless when he catches the look on his face. Because Tommy looks edible like this, feels edible where Jon’s fingers are warm and wet.

“Don’t—don’t stop,” Tommy groans, clenching around Jon’s fingers. He smiles when Jon kisses him. “Fuck,” he breathes out, knees shaking. 

And Tommy, he’s—he’s Jon’s best friend, the person Jon goes to for anything and everything, and he’s perfect. This is perfect. 

“Christ, I love you,” Jon says against Tommy’s neck. 

 

It’s a crazy week. Jon’s working on his fourth revision of a speech on gun control, pulling all-nighters. On the days he actually manages to leave the White House, he does so after midnight and is back before seven. 

He sees little of anyone outside the White House comms team and the President, and he’s so tired, he doesn’t register the shifts in motion. The only thing he does clock is the way Lovett keeps looking at him, whenever they can spare a few minutes to take break. Lovett opens his mouth, looks like he’s about to go into a rant before deciding against it and eating his bagel in silence. 

“Okay,” Jon says when the week is coming to an end, and he’s too tired to try guessing what’s up with Lovett. “What is it?” Lovett’s faux innocent face has never been that convincing, so Jon just pushes, “C’mon, man.”

Lovett takes a deep breath. “Just—have you spoken with Tommy lately?”

Jon blinks at him. Of course he has, Jon thinks. But then he looks at the calendar on his desk, and remembers the last time he saw Tommy was Monday, and they didn’t do a lot of talking then. 

“Is—is something wrong?” Jon asks. 

Lovett shrugs unconvincingly. “He asked me to proofread his resignation letter last night.”

“What?” Jon says slowly, his brain trying and failing to understand the idea of Tommy resigning. 

Lovett sighs. “He hasn’t been to work for over a month now.”

“But he’s working from home!” Jon protests. “And he’ll—he’ll be back to normal at some point, it’s not like this is permanent.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t really know when that’ll be and—”

“Wait a minute,” Jon interrupts. “Do _you_ think he should quit?”

“Of course not,” Lovett replies, looking a little offended. “I pretty much lost my shit last night when he told me. But, Jon.” He stops, biting his lip. “Has he really said nothing to you about this?”

Jon shakes his head, feeling his stomach drop. “Fuck,” he says, thinking about Tommy and the look on his face when he showed up at Jon’s the last time. Fuck, could he—has he been getting this all wrong all along? 

His clock reads twenty past five, there’s way too much work piled on his desk, and Jon can’t think straight. He grabs his bag, haphazardly throwing papers inside to look at later, maybe. 

“Where are you going?” Lovett asks. 

“Where do you think?” Jon replies.

“Fine,” Lovett says, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll cover for you if anyone asks.”

Jon turns to him. He hadn’t even thought about that. “Thanks, Lovett,” he says, really meaning it. 

 

“Lovett, did you forget your keys again?” comes Tommy’s voice through the door when Jon rings the bell. 

“Hi,” Jon says as Tommy opens the door. “May I come in?”

There’s a pause where Tommy stares at his socks, frowning. “Sure,” he says, letting Jon inside. “You want a drink? We have beer.”

“Sure,” Jon says, sitting on the couch.

Tommy hands him a bottle, leaning against a shelf. Jon thinks he’s putting as much distance between as he reckons he can get away with. “You’re, uh, out of the office early,” Tommy says.

Jon shrugs like it’s no big deal. It’s such a bald-faced lie, he almost wants to laugh.

Tommy narrows his eyes at him. His mouth is a thin line before he says, “Lovett told you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. Jon’s original plan was to calmly ask Tommy why and then convince him to stay. But as Tommy stands there, avoiding Jon’s eyes, Jon can’t help it and his mouth is running with the first thought in his head, “What the fuck, Tom?”

Tommy takes a long sip from his beer before putting it aside. Hands in his pockets, he says, “It’s for the best.”

“The best?” Jon parrots, pressing his fingertips to his closed eyes. 

“Yeah,” Tommy snaps. “It’s the best I can do under present circumstances.”

“That is such bullshit,” Jon says, standing up because he can’t stay still, not as he watches everything fall apart. 

“Fuck you, Jon,” Tommy says, and his anger is so startling Jon takes a step back. “Fuck you, you have no idea what this is like.”

“Then tell me,” Jon counters, stepping forward. “Talk to me.”

Jon wants to reach out and touch, but Tommy shakes his head. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, looking away. His voice is rough, raw. “Something has to change, I—I just, I can’t do this anymore.”

When Tommy looks up, his eyes are glassy, and Jon has the distinct feeling they aren’t just talking about Tommy’s job anymore. “Tommy, I lo—”

“I’m not a girl, Favs,” Tommy interrupts.

“I know,” Jon says slowly. “What does that—”

“I’m not a girl, and that’s—” Tommy stops himself. Then, “It’s been—fun, sleeping around, but I—I can’t do this anymore.”

“Okay,” Jon says, voice shaking, and he feels gutted. 

_Fun_ , his brain keeps repeating on a loop that weighs down on Jon’s chest. _Fun_ , like watching a movie or eating pizza with your friends. _Fun_ , and it hurts to think about Tommy waking up in his bed. _Fun_ , and Jon doesn’t know how the situation got away from him so fast. _Fun_ , and it hits him like a train, how he wants so much more.

“Jon,” Tommy starts.

“It’s—” Jon says, working through the lump in his throat. “It’s fine, but—Tommy, you can’t quit you job.”

“I have to,” Tommy says, “I’m not there, and I don’t even know when or if I’ll ever go back to normal, and—”

“Tommy,” Jon cuts him off. He leaves his beer on the coffee table and doesn’t meet Tommy’s eyes. “No one gives a fuck what you look like,” he says. “You’re too good at your job, and you’ve worked too hard to quit over this. And—” Jon thinks of all the things he wanted to say. It doesn’t matter, they don’t matter now. “And that’s really all I came here to say,” he lies. “I’ll—see you around, I guess.”

He lets himself out the door, not waiting for Tommy to say anything back. 

 

Jon can’t force himself to go back to the office. He tries to force himself to focus on the paperwork he brought home, but his brain keeps going back to Tommy, and the whole thing is useless. 

He gets drunk instead, because why the hell not. 

It’s a decision he regrets in the morning, when he has the water running so hot it almost burns. 

 

For all the days Jon’s spent missing Tommy at work like a limb, Jon’s really glad he isn’t at the White House when he comes in. 

He sits through his morning meetings and pretends everything is fine. Just fine. He locks himself in his office after, tries to get done the work he didn’t do yesterday. He keeps closing his eyes, trying to forget.

He hasn’t made much progress when Lovett barges in. 

“So, I guess congratulations are in order,” he says, giving Jon a slow clap. 

“I—what?” Jon frowns.

“Well,” Lovett says, settling in his usual chair. “You managed to talk Tommy down from ‘I’m quitting’ to ‘I’ll think about it,’ and I’m in a magnanimous enough mood to let you take all the credit on this one, even though we both know I’d already laid down the fertile ground where you so graciously planted the seeds of doubt in Tommy’s mind.”

Blinking at him, Jon takes a sip from his coffee, hoping the mug is large enough to cover his face. “Right,” he says.

“We should celebrate,” Lovett suggests next, and Jon recognizes the mischievous glint in his eye. “Let’s go out for beers, my treat. And by ‘beers’ I mean the sweetest, pinkest cocktails DC has to offer.” He stops, then adds, “And by my ‘my treat’ I mean you’re paying, since you’re my boss and the wage gap here really is abysmal.”

It wrenches a laugh out of Jon, who has to put his coffee down to wipe his mouth. “Jesus, Lovett,” Jon says, still laughing. 

“Wage gaps are a serious matter, Jonathan,” Lovett says.

“Of course,” Jon agrees. “Though I’m not sure your boss buying you drinks is all that appropriate. Maybe we should check with the ethics committee. I mean, what would CNN have to say if they ever caught wind of this.”

“Unbelievable,” Lovett says. “The lengths you’d go to to make sure I remain broke and oppressed by the system.”

“Now, Lovett,” Jon says, the corners of his mouth ticking upwards again. “Asking you to come in at nine am isn’t all that unreasonable when everyone gets here by seven.”

“Nonsense,” Lovett replies. “Absolute, utter nonsense, Favreau. Whatever, the point is, pinkest drinks on Thursday, you in?”

“Sure,” Jon says, shrugging. Not like he has anything else to do now.

 

Hours melt into one another. Jon reads the words in his speeches until the words stop making sense. He goes over Obama’s notes, has everything fact-checked twice and then a third time. He drinks too much coffee, and checks his phone every other minute, though he knows there won’t be a text from Tommy waiting to be answered. He buries himself in work, grabs himself more coffee. Rinse and repeat.

When Thursday finally rolls around, Jon is glad. He leaves the office at eight, meets up with Lovett at questionable bar at nine. By ten, he’s on his third margarita, which, much to Lovett’s disappointment, isn’t the shade of pink that —in Lovett’s words— would put the Victoria’s Secret logo to shame.

He’s buzzed and starting to feel loose when Lovett zeroes in on him, and Jon realizes this was a mistake. 

“Oh my God,” Jon says, putting his drink down. “I should’ve known this was a trap.”

“You should’ve,” Lovett confirms, looking serious. It’s then that Jon notices Lovett is still nursing his first drink, isn’t even halfway done with it. Without missing a beat, Lovett asks, “What the fuck did you say to Tommy?”

Jon groans. “I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Too bad,” Lovett says. 

“Ugh, why,” Jon complains, dropping his head in his hands. 

“Because, Tommy has apparently sworn himself to secrecy on the matter, and frankly, you’ve always been the easier nut to crack,” Lovett answers. “Besides, I sent you to him last week to fix this, and what do I find when I come home? A mute Tommy who’s staring at our TV like he can make it combust through sheer willpower.” Lovett shakes his head. “I knew expecting a changed, breastless Tommy was probably too much to ask, but just what the fuck happened between the two of you?”

“Gee, thanks for all the credit you give me, Lovett,” Jon replies, crossing his arms over his chest. Then his brain processes everything Lovett’s just said and, “Wait, why would you expect Tommy to be back to normal?”

At this, Lovett heaves a dramatic sigh. “I got a hold of that Republican I was sleeping with a few weeks ago.”

“The one who turned into a chick, too?”

“That’s the one,” Lovett says. “And after much talk and skillful manipulation —you’re welcome, by the way, the things I do for you idiots— I got him to tell me exactly what were the ‘personal issues’ he had to work through to be back to normal. To no one’s surprise, it turned out he just needed to admit to himself he was hot for cock, and puff!”

“And that was it?” Jon asks, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Lovett says. “I know what you’re thinking. How could this possibly apply to our Tommy? Our Tommy, who has no qualms appreciating and hooking up with the best of them, regardless of gender? The situation doesn’t really apply, does it?"

"Right," Jon agrees slowly, narrowing his eyes at Lovett, because he isn't sure he likes where this is going.

"But then the two of you started sleeping together, and I thought—” Lovett cuts himself off, sighing for real this time. His eyes are fixed on Jon when he goes on, “Well, in truth, I thought maybe the personal issue to be worked out here was about the two of you.”

“That—that makes no sense, Lovett.”

“Wrong, it makes total sense,” Lovett counters. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for needlessly homoerotic displays in my day-to-day life, but there’s having a work husband, and then there’s you two, with the mind reading—”

“Mind reading?” Jon interrupts.

“The mind reading, the way you only _look_ at each other and that’s all you need to know,” Lovett explains. “And if that were it, it’d be weird, but whatever. But it’s not just that. It’s you stealing food off each other’s plates, touching each other the way you touch no one else, acting like the world is about to end if you’re not next to each other every step of the way.”

“That’s—” Jon stammers. “Not true,” he says, but even as the words are leaving his mouth, he knows there’s a lot of truth to what Lovett says. 

“Jon,” Lovett starts, and he doesn’t sound exasperated or mad. Mostly, he just sounds as tired as Jon feels. “Just, what happened between the two of you?”

Jon presses the heels of his hands to his eyes for one long second. Then, “Tommy wanted—he just didn’t want to do whatever we were doing anymore.”

Lovett opens and closes his mouth, eyes wide. “You’re joking,” he says. 

Jon shakes his head, letting out a bitter chuckle. “I’m not.”

“So, what,” Lovett says, “he said he wanted out and you just…agreed?”

“I wasn’t about to disagree, Lovett,” Jon says. “If he doesn’t want to—whatever, sleep with me, I can’t—”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Lovett demands, and here’s the exasperation Jon was expecting before. 

“Lovett, he doesn’t _want_ —”

“Did Tommy actually say those words?”

“No, but—”

“Then think about this,” Lovett cuts Jon off. “It takes two to tango, and do you really think Tommy would let you do all the shit you’ve been doing if he didn’t like it?”

“So, he changed his mind,” Jon says. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Lovett insists. “It does, and I can’t believe the two of you are making us regress to middle school, but here it is: Jon, my friend Tommy likes you, and I think you like him back. What are you gonna do about it?”

“It isn’t like that, Lovett. Tommy—”

“Dear lord,” Lovett all but snaps. “Tommy doesn’t think you’re interested, probably because he still thinks you’re a good, straight Catholic boy.”

“That’s—absurd,” Jon settles on. 

“Jon,” Lovett says in fake patience. “In the years I’ve known you, I’ve only seen you date women, and up until you volunteered to sleep with Tommy, I, too, thought you were as straight as they come.” Then, smirking, “Trust me, had I known, I would’ve made sure we had a lot more fun at the office.”

“You’re a menace,” Jon says, snickering. “But still—”

Then, as serious as Lovett ever gets, he says, “Jon, you need to talk to Tommy about this.”

Jon thinks about the things Lovett’s been saying, and even if none of it is true about how Tommy feels, Jon realizes he desperately wants it to be so. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, gulping down the rest of his margarita. 

“Good,” Lovett says. “And you should do it tomorrow.”

“Why?” Jon asks, frowning.

Lovett shrugs. “You’re kinda drunk now, but you should do it before you lose your nerve,” he explains. “Also, I have a date tomorrow with an actual human and not a shell pretending to pass as a Republican aide, so I’ll be out of your way, and you’ll be free to fuck like rabbits all over the place.”

“Oh my God, Lovett,” Jon laughs, hands over his face. Then, feeling a lump in his throat just thinking about it, “What if it doesn’t come to that?”

“Then at least you cleared the air,” Lovett says. “Right?”

“Right,” Jon agrees. 

 

The following day, when Jon gets on the elevator in Tommy and Lovett’s building, someone has pressed the buttons to all floors. 

“You gotta be kidding be,” Jon mutters under his breath. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, leaning back against the mirror. 

The elevator pings, doors opening on the second floor. _Maybe this is a sign_.

There’s a dying plant on fifth floor, and _maybe this is a mistake_.

On the sixth floor, an old lady asks him whether he’s going up or down. “Up,” Jon replies, swallowing hard. 

Up on the ninth, there’s a woman yelling, “You dick!” through an open door. 

“Jesus christ,” Jon says, closing his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. 

He’s got his heart in his throat when the elevator pings a thirteenth time and it’s his turn to step out. 

“Okay,” he says to himself, squaring his shoulders.

He rings the bell. 

 

Tommy offers him a beer, and it’s a déjà vu of the worst conversation Jon’s ever had in recent memory.

“So,” Tommy says, looking down. 

“I—” Jon starts and falters. He takes a deep breath, playing with the label on the bottle. “There—there is no way I can—like, sugarcoat this or whatever, so I’m just gonna say it.” He bites his lip, stealing his nerves long enough to look at Tommy as he says, “Tommy, I think I’m in love with you.”

For a moment, all Tommy does is stare. Then, his mouth a thin line, “No, you don’t.”

“Tommy,” Jon says. “I think I know—”

“No, you don’t,” Tommy insists, voice harsher. “You—whatever, like me now, that I’m—like this.” He gestures at his own body, and there’s something dark in his eyes that Jon _hates_.

“I don’t give a fuck what you look like,” Jon tells him, taking two steps forward. 

“Jon, you’re straight, and that’s fine, it’s—”

“Will you listen to me?” Jon interrupts, eyes meeting Tommy’s. “Fuck, Tommy, I—I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s—I feel sixteen with how much I just want you, and—” he chuckles, ducking his head because if he keeps staring at Tommy’s face, he’s going to kiss him, but this is more important. “I feel so lucky,” he says, is almost surprised by how choked his own voice sounds. “I feel so lucky because—fuck, Tom, I can’t believe I get to have you in my life, and maybe this is it, maybe I can never bet on anything else ever again because I’ve used up all my luck to get with you, so.” Jon raises his eyes and Tommy’s expression is unreadable. “So, I’m going to fight for this. Because I do, I do love you.” Then, when Tommy is still silent, “Please, just—say something?”

“Jon,” Tommy starts, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

Instead, he closes the distance between them and kisses Jon. The angle is awkward, especially when Jon wraps his arms around Tommy’s waist, lifting him off his feet. But Jon couldn’t care any less, it’s still the greatest kiss of his life.

“I can’t believe Lovett was right,” Tommy mumbles into Jon’s mouth. 

Jon laughs, because of course Lovett had a talk with Tommy, too. Of course he did, and Jon’s body shakes with his own laughter, throat exposed. The sound dies almost instantly the second Tommy presses his mouth to his Adam’s apple, scraping his teeth. 

“He’ll—” Jon sighs, “—be insufferable after this.”

“Mhmm,” Tommy hums, sending shivers down Jon’s spine. “Bedroom?”

“Yeah,” Jon whispers.

 

In the morning, Tommy shakes him awake. “Jon,” he says, nudging his shoulder. “Jon, wake up.”

It takes Jon a moment to gather his thoughts as he blinks up at Tommy. Tommy, who’s hovering over him, Tommy and his square jaw and short hair.

“Holy shit,” Jon says, sitting up. “You’re back.”

“I am,” Tommy confirms, voice deep. 

He searches for something on Jon’s face. Jon doesn’t know what, but Tommy’s looking like himself again, and Jon’s been waiting for this for—too long, he thinks. Without thinking, he kisses Tommy, hands coming up to grab his face, feeling him there and real under his fingertips.

Breaking away, Jon strokes Tommy’s side, hand landing on Tommy’s waist. “What do you, um, wanna do?”

“Honestly?” Tommy says, grinning. “Is it kinda weird I wanna jerk off?”

Chuckling, Jon shakes his head. “No,” he says, drawing Tommy closer. “So long as you let me help you with that.”

He runs his hand down Tommy’s flat chest, finds his way to his dick. Biting down on Tommy’s bottom lip, Jon wraps his hand around Tommy’s cock, thumbing the head. 

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out, getting hard in Jon’s hand. “I’m—down if you’re down.”

Jon moves them so they’re on their sides. It easier to jerk Tommy off like this, easier to watch his face and hear the small noises he makes. 

“Always,” Jon says, kissing Tommy again.


End file.
